


Coming Undone

by Biter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love, Other, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biter/pseuds/Biter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose Bolton returns to his wife at The Dreadfort.  These two characters are so damaged.....they definitely belong together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Undone

The morning sun had just risen as Roose Bolton entered the gates of The Dreadfort. The war had lasted months but, in the end, the Bolton forces had prevailed, squashing Stannis Baratheon and his well-schooled army, financed by the now nearly bankrupt Iron Bank of Braavos. An army with only measured military training but no practical fighting experience on the battlefield was no match for the cunning strategy of the Bolton forces.

His decision to align himself with the Freys and Lannisters had left him a wealthy man, and the news that Daenerys Targaryen had succumbed to the Dragon Pox epidemic that had swept through Meereen, leading to an uprising and the slaughter of her precious dragons, was icing on the proverbial cake. 

Ramsay had successfully executed a plan to infiltrate The Eyrie and made short work of Peter Baelish and his beloved “Catelyn clone,” Sansa Stark, who undoubtedly suffered a great deal at Ramsay’s hands before begging to be thrown out the moon door. 

And that had been the end of the rebellion. Whether through fear or loyalty, the good houses of the North fell in line behind House Bolton and all was quiet and peaceful. 

And what did it matter that Tommen Baratheon sat on the iron throne, ruling under the guidance of his uncle, Tyrion Lannister? His continued allegiance to the Lannisters and the Freys assured that Roose Bolton was free to rule the North as his own without interference. After all, he had an impressive army and the North was larger than all the other kingdoms combined. They would be foolish to challenge him. As The Warden of the North was fond of saying, “I am not a man to be undone.”

Roose dismounted his stallion and with his straight spine and confident swagger, strode toward a waiting Ramsay Bolton. 

His recently legitimized bastard met him with a sinister, insincere smile. “Welcome home, Father.”

Roose didn’t deign to respond to his greeting. With a measured glance from side to side, his expression unreadable, he demanded, “Where is Lady Bolton? Why is she not here to greet me, as is customary?” 

Walda had been on his mind a great deal. He had been away from The Dreadfort for nearly four months, having no choice but to leave his heavily pregnant wife behind…..with Ramsay. Such were the sacrifices of war. The child had surely been born months ago, but Roose had no word from the Dreadfort about the outcome. If he was uneasy, he did not show it.

Ramsay flashed a devious grin. “Oh, she is resting and tending to the child. She doesn’t leave her chambers much, anymore......” Ramsay's subtle hint at the intimidation of his wife was not lost on Roose and he locked eyes with his son, who could barely contain his glee when he announced, “It’s a girl.”

Roose’s stone gaze never wavered and he gave no hint as to whether or not this news disappointed him. He simply walked away from Ramsay without another word. Ramsay had his uses, to be sure, but he would soon be out of sight and out of mind. Roose planned to send him back to The Eyrie, where he could pursue his depraved hobbies in seclusion, far from the solitude of The Dreadfort.

Custom and courtesy were paramount in Roose’s world. In truth, he was more than a little angry that Walda had not met him at the gate and, therefore, he did not seek her out. Instead, he took his time, meeting with his council and tending to other duties throughout the day, his weapon of casual indifference a means of punishing his wife for her insulting refusal to acknowledge his homecoming.

Long past dinner, when he was freshly shaved, bathed, and dressed informally in clean trousers and shirt, Roose finally made his way to the chambers he shared with his lady wife. Despite the abundance of willing whores that followed the army from camp to camp, he had not been with a woman all these months and had often thought fondly of Walda's soft, comforting curves pressed against him in the throes of passion. But he was still angry and not above withholding his affections in the bed chamber as further punishment. 

The room was quiet. The only source of light, a warm fire in the hearth. He saw the cradle immediately, but there was no sign of Walda. 

Wrapped in swaddling clothes, his little daughter slept silently. Her small, pink face appeared healthy and she had inherited the Bolton scowl.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice startled him and it was only then that he saw Walda, perched silently on the windowsill across the room, in the dark.

As he approached her he could see, even in the dim firelight, that she was thinner than he remembered, possibly two stone lighter, but still plump. It had always been Walda’s cloying habit to greet her husband with unrestrained affection and exuberance. But not today. His cold indifference had served its purpose, after all. She was sorry...but Roose was not satisfied and sought to prolong the game.

He stood in front of her. They did not touch. “Why are you sorry?”

Sullen, eyes downcast, Walda wouldn’t……couldn’t…… look at him. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. “I didn’t give you a son.”

The silence was palpable and markedly uncomfortable. She had missed his point entirely and it only served to irritate him further.

It was Roose who broke the silence, as matter of fact as if he were commenting on the condition of the crops. “There will be plenty of time for you to give me sons, now that the war is over.”

“Yes, but…you don’t understand……” Walda began, then falling silent.

Roose was becoming impatient. “What?”

Walda took a deep breath and whispered, “I…. I never thought to have a daughter. Never considered it. And now that she’s here, I’m afraid…..”

Roose did not move or speak.

“.....I’m afraid of what will happen to her when she grows up.”

Roose pursed his lips and responded authoritatively, as if speaking to a child, “She will be married to a Lord of the North from one of the noble houses.”

It was then that Walda caught him off guard, screaming and pounding her fists against the window casement. “DAMN IT! DON'T YOU THINK I KNOW THAT!? WOMEN ARE JUST PROPERTY TO BE TRADED FOR MONEY AND POWER! NOBODY CARES IF THEY ARE HAPPY OR SAFE!” As abruptly as it exploded, her rage ceased, and she dropped her hands to her lap in defeat. Tears began to fall from her eyes as she tried to control her sobbing.

Stunned, Roose could only stare blankly at her. Her violent outburst had disarmed him momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure and moved close enough to touch her wet cheek. He had wanted to punish her, but he could not abide hysterics.

Altering his voice to a familiar, manipulative tone, he smoothly told her what he thought she wanted to hear. “Do you really think I would approve of an alliance that would cause harm to come to our daughter?”

Roose Bolton could not conceive of anything he could not control, and what happened next came from a place within Walda he never knew existed. Still sniffling, she slowly raised her head, favoring him with an unwavering, demoralizing stare. Ever so softly, she whispered, “You can’t stop it….. Everywhere in the world, they hurt women and little girls.” His wife’s forthright pronouncement scarcely hid her contempt for his perceived weakness and was akin to a slap in the face. Yet, there was something else beneath it all.

In the soft glow of the firelight he saw in her eyes a glimpse of what her smiles, laughter and good nature had always kept hidden. The sad, lonely, little girl that Walda had been. Fat Walda Frey. Teased relentlessly by her pretty cousins. Always the butt of her family’s jokes. And the biggest joke of all - only chosen as a bride because her grandfather had offered her weight in silver as a dowry. And in that moment, with a twisting knot in is stomach, his anger and impatience began to fade. 

She reached out to him then, wanting comfort, tearfully clutching at the front of his shirt and whispering breathlessly, “I’ve missed you so very much.” Like a lightening bolt, realization struck that for all her silly, giggling emotional displays, Walda had always been the strong one. She was, always had been, the one in control. 

He kissed her then.... full on the mouth.....and lost the measured control he was so desperate to regain. She moaned and pulled him to her, craving the only thing that made her feel valued…his attentions. Frantically, she tugged at the front of his trousers while he raised her skirts. He took his wife then – standing in front of her as she sat on the windowsill, her legs wrapped passionately around his lean waist. Gods, he couldn’t get enough of her. Her scent, the taste of her mouth, her skin. He never wanted it to end.

Much later, when he was certain that Walda was sound asleep, he stealthily slipped from their marriage bed and the comfort of her embrace and sat on the floor beside the cradle. He watched as his baby daughter slept – such a quiet little thing, she was. Gently, as if afraid he would harm her with his touch, he traced a single finger along the inside of her tiny hand. In her slumber, she instinctively grabbed his finger and held it tight. And for the first time in his life, his heart began to ache.

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, Warden of the North, had finally come undone.


End file.
